It's A Long Way To London
by LilyWhiteSnow
Summary: Arthur Kirkland doesn't have time to fall in love with his American colleague. It's World War II and Francis isn't going to save himself.
1. Blue-eyed captor

Arthur had long since given up on standing upright with the weather as it was. Although, he had to admit that a dry sky at five in the morning was a rare treat compared with the near constant drizzle he had experienced at home in London - the sub zero temperatures and gathering mist were getting him down nonetheless.

"Bloody Americans," he muttered, albeit quietly. This corner of town was completely deserted, Gilbert had made sure of that, but it didn't stop him from feeling nervous whenever his native language left his chapped lips. He hadn't spoken English for months, and the sounds felt alien, almost uncomfortable in his throat. This would have distressed him, possibly even upsetting him, a few years previous but now it was just a muffled emotion in his heavy trench coat. In the distance, the drone of Spitfires could be heard.

"Can't be Berlin..." he mumbled within his own head. Mumbling, in his own head? That was a new low.

"Too far away... Dresden too." His stomach made an unhappy lurch at the thought of Dresden. It wasn't a war crime. Couldn't be. Angry at his own guilt, because how dare anyone assume he was guilt. Arthur drew his legs in closer and clasped his other hand as if pretending - just for the moment, it was somebody else's.

"Hey." A harsh whisper carried through the stagnant air. He whipped his head round in panic, expecting to see a German officer gripping a bayonet, or an Italian lieutenant with a knife in a shaking fist. He saw nothing but shadow.

"Hey!" The voice sounded exasperated this time and the English man almost felt responsible for inconveniencing the disembodied voice. A hand slammed down on his shoulder, knocking his small frame and crumpling the thick material as if it were paper.

"What the-" Another hand slapped over his mouth before he could finish his manly shriek.

"Calm down buddy..." said a heavily accented voice, far too loud in the melancholy of the night "S'only me." Arthur could hear the grin in the words and frowned up angrily into the blue eyes of his smug captor.

_An hour earlier._

Arthur was rocking. In some vaguely coherent corner of his mind he recognised that this was a bad thing.

"Arthur!" A German voice pierced his ear, still rocking him and making the cheap mattress creak and twang ominously. A shock of icy water and he flung himself out of bed, or at least he tried to. The rough sheets twisted around his ankles and held him unceremoniously with half his body off the bed, messy blonde hair splayed on the carpet. In front of his eyes were a pair of clumsily put together military boots. _Gilbert_.

"Wake up idiot, it's four am, we have business to take care of!" A glance at his beside clock confirmed this slightly miserable fact.

"But Gilbert, it's too early. Ludwig will suspect something."

"No he won't. I put sleeping pills in his beer last night..." The albino beamed as if this was something to be proud of as the younger man struggled to extract himself from his own limbs.

"Besides, there have been British planes flying overhead all night. A few more little bumps will hardly do any more harm. I told the town council to stay away from Schuster StraBe - what with all the un-exploded bombs there, so you shouldn't be disturbed."

The disgruntled Englishman had managed to scramble to his feet in this time and organise his face into a dark scowl.

"What the hell Gilbert? I'm not crawling about some shrapnel ridden street!" The Prussian raised an arrogant eyebrow.

"It's not actually full of bombs _dummer junge_, I just told them it was."

"And they believed you?"

"But of course! I am awesome - am I not?" Arthur decided not to dignify that with an answer, instead asking why he had to go in the first place.

"We have a new operative working in the area, Alfred Jones- not he isn't Welsh, he's American, bad luck. I've been told he's fairly useful so try to find a way to free that resistance fool without either of you getting killed. Now go." With that, the pale man swept out of the tiny room, leaving his young employee staring at his retreating head with an outraged pout.

"Oh..." Gilbert leant back through the doorway, "...and if you ever need to contact him out of these meetings he's working as the local postman, so slip a blue ribbon onto any letter you want him, and only him, to read. That's all."

Arthur could hear his confident steps thudding down the stairs. He really needed to get Ludwig to put a carpet down to drown out the noise of his various comings and goings, but he didn't want to push his luck with the Pub owner.

Sighing, he gazed around his little room. He should probably get going soon, he hadn't met an American before but from what he'd hear he didn't want to anger him. His brother had told him they could lift trees with their bare hands. Arthur doubted this, but hurried to put on his shoes nonetheless, successfully thrusting his foot straight through the sole of the tattered leather garment.

"Brilliant..." he thought.

Roughly tying the parts of the shoe together with string, he tiptoed his way out of his room and down the steps -gripping onto the banister and lifting himself up every so slightly each time a step threatened to creak under his weight. At the foot of the stairs a very large, grey cat twitched it's nose at him.

"Move," he hissed at the offending animal. The cat meowed.

Tentatively prodding it with his damaged shoe proved to not be a great tactic as the cat immediately pounced and tore the makeshift boot to pieces.

"Oi!" Not quite as tentatively, he gave the cat a swift kick that Ludwig would no doubt smack him over the head for later. He then made a dash across the dimly lit pub floor, skidding to a halt at the door and checking the cat wasn't following him. Arthur deftly unlocked the door with a bottle opener and braced himself for the December air.


	2. The Good Guys

"_S'only me." Arthur could hear the grin in his words and frowned up angrily into the blue eyes of his smug captor._

The taller man insisted on keeping up his insane grin, undaunted by the thick-eyebrowed blonde who looked up at him in a way that made him wonder if he was going to get his hand back.

"The name's Alfred," the annoyingly cheery man announced. He was speaking German Arthur noticed...odd.

"Arthur," he replied, after skilfully contorting the American's hand so that he could shake it.

"Pleasure, I'm sure," said the man – Alfred was it? - with a cocky grin.

"Don't imitate my accent, Alfred. It's offensive to my culture." He didn't really care, but seeing the grin sink slightly in confidence gave him a brief feeling of superiority.

"Sorry dude! Didn't mean to offend ya!" He was speaking English now, which was a relief; the sound of a German accent from the man who was supposedly his ally had been unnerving.

"So what's up?" Arthur blinked at the American. The American blinked back. Arthur craned his neck a little further (Alfred was taller than he had anticipated...) to look up at the night sky. Alfred watched, slightly bemused, and then followed his lead, thinking it was some type of signal. For a few moments they stood there together in the freezing air, staring up at the sky that had turned slightly pink with the warning of snow.

"What are you doing?" Arthur's head snapped back down and the sound of the American voice.

"You asked me a question. Had you seen an aircraft of some sort?" He inquired. Alfred stared at him for a moment before doubling over laughter.

"What?!" the smaller blonde waved his arms up and down in frustration. "What is it?!"

The other man struggled for a few seconds to catch his breath before straightening up and asking in a serious tone,

"What's the plan?"

"Oh." Arthur couldn't quite see how these two statements linked together but thought it better not to question - a lamplight nearby was beginning to flicker on, somebody hadn't caught on to Gilbert's "awesome" warnings it seemed.

"Francis Bonnefoy is one of the key resistance leaders, God help them! He's currently being held in a Gestapo safe house on the other side of town."

He kept his voice hushed, it may still have been the early hours of the morning, but having seen the grainy photos of some of his fellow spies who had not been so discreet, Arthur was keen to not get caught by a passing paper boy or busy bodying housewife peeking behind a net curtain.

"Why did he get caught?"

"Because he's a moron." The American let out a warm laugh that startled the other man.

"No, I mean what did he do?"

"Oh." Arthur blushed slightly, hoping that the snow that was starting to fall on them would excuse his pink face.

"He tried to woo a young lady at a bar in the suburbs of Paris. He told her about all his 'trés spécial' missions." He curled his lip at the memory of that particular report. Bloody French... "She failed to mention in this heart to heart that her beau was a particularly intimidating German officer, well, you can imagine a young girl wouldn't want to announce that in a French bar. Needless to say she ran home to her lover and told him everything and before the French moron could find another pretty lady to seduce he was in handcuffs in the back of a Gestapo motor."

Arthur took a deep breath after this and quickly choked on the mouthful of Arctic air. Alfred thumped him on the back a few times.

"Ah," he muttered. "Well that's a bit of a bummer. Just for having a crush on a pretty gal? Poor guy."

Arthur, who was struggling to stay standing after the blows he'd just received, attempted to translate what the other had said.

"Yes, well, quite..." he managed to splutter. "The point of the matter is we need to get the wanker out of there before he does any real damage."

"Like what?" the taller of the two asked with open, innocent eyes.

Arthur smirked back cynically. "You really are new to this, aren't you?"

Not waiting for an answer he started to pick his way through the rubble of the house they were standing on, the nearby street lamp had finally fought it's way to life. The American followed, looking slightly fearfully around at the destruction under his feet.

"So how many bombs did all this?" he asked, gesturing to the space of about five houses, now miserable piles of brick and clay tiling.

"One," came back the British voice. Arthur heard the footsteps behind him stop.

"One?!"

"Yes." Arthur didn't bother to turn around, at the end of the ruined row of houses was a slow decline to an empty field, far away from the rest of the town if slightly more open to anyone watching who could lip read. "Spitfire I think, probably lost, can't think why anyone would attack Bonn unless they had missed Cologne."

This, unfortunately, was quite a likely reason for the attacks. After all, Ireland had been hit by German bombers who couldn't work out why there had been no lights on the ground for a few hours and mistook Dublin for London. He kicked a piece of fallen timber. So many wasted lives.

"So let me get this straight..." the American had caught up with him by this point, four long strides and he was by his side before he could even react "...You Brits just bombed everything in sight? Hell, I thought you were the good guys." Arthur's back snapped straight at this and whirled around to face the American spy.

"We are!" He spat "Of course we are! They..." He trailed off, trying to think of an argument that didn't end with the childish 'they started it' because really, who, looking around this street, with the piles of glass covering children's toys and making them glitter as if they were new, and twisted railings crumpled over as if still trapping bodies underneath, could think that the German people had asked for this.

"Hey!" Arthur's eyes cleared of the mist and he realised he'd been rudely ignoring the American for a while now. Still, mustn't admit defeat.

"What? I was just thinking."

"Mm." Alfred looked unconvinced, and how dare he look that attractive with his eyebrows raised and mouth in that slight smirk. Arthur mentally slapped himself, he wasn't attractive, he was a mildly irritating American who was bound to mess up his plans in some way or other. As if on cue the other man's face bounced back into a jolly expression.

"...So what's the plan?"

The Englishman sighed. The truth was none of them had even established a plan yet, what with the Blitz growing in strength over the past couple of months and the Germans showing no signs of easing up on them - it was hard to keep focus. Thousands had died already and one careless resistance member was relatively low down on their list of priorities. A lot had happened in a year...

"We don't necessarily have a fully concocted list of procedures yet," he answered, slightly smug at his handling of the question.

"What?" of course the American had to ruin it. "In English please guv'na!" Arthur wanted to rip his head off.

"We haven't got a plan!"

"Oh." The other man didn't seem particularly worried by this.

"Well don't you worry about this Artie-"

"_Arthur_."

"I'll have a good old think and come back to you with an awesome plan that's bound to work!" He grinned and for a moment the dejected Londoner almost wanted to believe him.

"I'm sure you will," he said.

With a friendly clap on the shoulder, that almost broke the smaller man's collar bone, Alfred stopped walking alongside him and turned to head back towards his lodgings. Arthur also stopped, having reached the point where road became ruined crop, and watched the other man leave.  
How had he not noticed the clearly American bomber jacket?

Idiot.


	3. Glass

The next time Arthur saw his American counterpart dawn had finally broken and the German town was slowly waking to a bitter December morning. The pristine windows of the pub were coated in a fine sheen of frost, which was why Arthur didn't notice the yellow bicycle pulling up on the pavement outside.

"Hello Arthur!" the sudden cheery voice startled the Englishman, who dropped the glass he had been polishing. Quickly gathering his composure Arthur snapped his vision up to the unusually jolly customer. He was greeted, for the second time that morning, with bright blue eyes.

"Post for you." Alfred thrust out his hand, clutching three slightly damaged looking letters. He was dressed in the traditional navy uniform with brass buttons and a little cap. Gilbert must have been pretty sneaky to find that ensemble.

"Ah yes, thank you." both were now speaking perfect German of course, even though they were alone in the darkened room. Arthur took the letters, but hesitated when the other man gripped onto one of them for slightly longer, before releasing. The message was clear.

"You must be the new postman," a voice came from the back of the room, Arthur dropped the letters into the puddle made by the glass. Since when had he been so jumpy? "Anything for me?"

Alfred put on a charming smile, which was his first mistake. German postmen weren't charming.

"Sure, Arthur here has them"

"I see," the German pub owner looked suspiciously between them "You two have acquainted yourselves so quickly?"

Arthur felt the familiar pang of fear that he always did when threatened with discovery, but he didn't have to respond.

"Arthur here had a little run in with me with morning, almost knocked me off my bike didn't you?" The American beamed at him, the lies casually rolling off his tongue with an ease Arthur found unnerving. He tried to change the topic.

"These are for you Ludwig," he said, passing the envelopes to the blonde who was still watching them carefully, "That one looks official," gesturing to one with a red stamp "You should probably read it straight away".

Luckily, the German took the letters without a word and marched out of the room, casting one last look behind him at the 'postman' who was still grinning in a way that made Arthur wonder how his cheeks didn't ache.

The two spies remained in the room, Arthur behind the bar gripping onto his letter and the remains of the broken glass and Alfred shifting on his feet.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" the gruff Englishman asked.

"Oh yeah, loads of places, these letters won't post themselves!" the American grinned at him as if this comment didn't sound odd, considering he was still standing still before the other man.

"What happened to your predecessor?" Arthur asked, wondering how Gilbert had managed to pull off this stunt.

"Oh, poor guy, a letter came this morning saying his aunt had been involved in an accident, something pottery related. Anyway he rushed off first thing this morning, they couldn't turn me down could they?" the American laughed again and Arthur wondered at how the forst wasn't melted from the windows at the warmth of it.

"Well it was nice talking to you Artie but I got places to be. Seeya around!" with that the blue-eyed American skipped out of the room in a fashion Arthur thought unsuitable for wartime.

There seemed a lull in the room after he left and the Englishman felt unusually cold. Checking to make sure Ludwig was safely in his bedroom Arthur crouched below the staircase and slowly peeled open the envelope. The letter appeared fairly normal, supposedly a letter from his mother concerning family issues such as a younger brother getting involved in "scout groups" and an older sister getting engaged. Arthur had long since developed a code with Gilbert for reading secret messages, taking every word in the letter that was a multiple of seven and mentally recording the first character. Before long Arthur had spelt out the predictable message.

**E-L-E-V-E-N. A-M. B-R-I-D-G-E.**

How unoriginal, Arthur thought, they really had to try harder.

"Arthur!" the German voice shook him out of his thoughts. Quickly shoving the letter into his waistcoat pocket the young man rushed into the corridor.

"Yes Ludwig?" he asked, trying to appear innocent.

"I asked you to clean these glasses, you have simply succeeded in breaking them!" the German roared, pointing angrily at the small pile of glass on the counter. Arthur began to apologise but was cut off.

"Just clean it up, Feli- the officers will be here soon!" Ludwig blushed slightly at his slip, which Arthur chose to ignore, considering he was already in trouble. Looking at the clock he realised it was already 9 am, the letter had taken longer to decipher than usual, probably due to the fact that whatever the American had done to it had made it curl at the edges and smudge important words. The officers staying in the area would file in early in the morning and hang around until they were called off for some errand or for training. As if on cue, an Italian officer in a bright blue uniform with floppy chestnut hair and chocolate eyes bounced into the room.

"Arthur, Ludwig!" he greeted them with a girly wave, Arthur would have sworn one of his hairs bounced up at the mention of the German's name.

"Officer Vargas." Ludwig nodded in greeting and turned to mindlessly organise the bottles. Arthur suspected it was to hide his slight blush.

Before long the room was packed with officers, mainly German or Italian, crowding round tables and calling out orders to Arthur who was getting tired of the same boring requests for the German beer. He could kill for a Guinness.

Feliciano was the only Italian sitting at one of the bar stools instead of at the round tables, where his fellow soldiers were talking rapidly about pretty girls and how much they missed pasta.

"Eh Ludwig," he began, stretched over the bar and resting his chin on one hand like a lovesick schoolgirl, "is that a new shirt?"

The German looked down at the burgundy shirt Arthur had seem him wear at least a dozen times before.

"No." the German replied bluntly, rubbing the glass with slightly more force than was necessary. Arthur stood beside him filling tankards with yet more beer, trying to suppress a smirk.

"It fits you very well," the Italian continued in a soft voice "Although it's a bit tight across the chest isn't it, is that uncomfortable at all?"

Arthur could _hear_ Ludwig blush.

"No, not really, I find it perfectly comfortable." the German said quickly, the squeaking of the glass loud enough for Arthur to hear over the rowdy soldiers.

"Mm," the Italian cocked his head in thought "I wonder if you would like me to loosen it for you?"

The glass broke.


	4. Missing from the map

By 11 am, Arthur was happy to leave the pub. Ludwig had looked on the verge of a nosebleed with Feliciano unrelenting in his quest to make the German fall in love with him. He often tried to cover up his embarrassment by shouting orders at Arthur, who in turn was getting slaps on the bum from over friendly soldiers. In all, he was glad for the opportunity to escape.

"Ludwig," he hissed, leaning over to the red-faced blonde. "I left my handkerchief at the doctors the other day, could I go and get it back?"

"Can't you do without it for one day?" Ludwig asked, frowning.

"A gentleman cannot go without his handkerchief for more than an hour!" Arthur answered with genuine panic in his voice. Realising that he may have sounded a bit foreign, he changed his tone. "Besides, it's not sanitary to be working at the bar without a handkerchief."

This satisfied the taller man who was already preoccupied with the giggling Italian and dismissed him with a wave.

Weaving his way in-between the tables, Arthur safely reached the door, peeled a drunken soldier off of it – drunk, at 11 am, really? - then slipped out relatively unnoticed. The bridge mentioned in Alfred's letter was a short walk away and it gave Arthur time to think. The situation with Francis really was getting urgent. Alright, so the man had been an idiot and his mistake was putting many operatives at risk, but he was still what Arthur loosely regarded as a friend.

Francis had been a French exchange friend of his elder brother Seamus when Arthur was still a small boy. The French lad had been, well, different. While Seamus and his other brothers had wanted to roll about in the mud with some ball or other, Francis sat with Arthur at the side of whatever field they had found and talked to him about the things Arthur liked, mainly magic. The incident with the hair was a slight bump in the relationship and the French boy was often off running after the London girls and boys, or even flirting with little Arthur. Nevertheless they kept in contact until the war, where he had become a useful ally.

Lost in his thoughts, Arthur came to the point where he had to cross the road, looked right, and stepped out. The screech of tyres filled his ears. He could see a flash of metal and a blurred scurry of movement before something gripped him tightly around the waist and squeezed.

"Arthur!" a voice shouted, but Arthur was convinced it was too late and twisted his eyes shut. The next thing he knew was his back against a broad chest and a jolt backwards. The car wailed to a stop a few feet ahead and all the Englishman could do was blink at it.

"You looked the wrong way," a voice hissed into his ear, almost silently, and in English. Arthur pulled off the arm and turned to face the small crowd that had gathered. Overcoming the shock to formulate German in his head, he gave a tense smile.

"Sorry about that everyone, no harm done." He brushed himself down as if to prove this point. The driver huffed at him and started up his car, the crowd moving away. The Englishman looked for the American, but he was gone.

"Sorry," he repeated to a small group of German officers who were looking at him strangely. Arthur gave them a forced smile and hurried across the road, looking the right way this time, and set off again for the bridge.

"How did he move so fast?" he wondered out loud, thinking of Alfred's arm around his waist.

* * *

The American stood leaning against the ruined bridge. No trains had gone over there in years.

"Okay there Artie?" he laughed, taking in Arthur's slightly shell-shocked expression. "No more accidents?"

"Thank you." Arthur ground out between clenched teeth.

"No worries dude, what are heroes for?" Before Arthur could answer Alfred pulled him into a hug, making him splutter.

"Wh-what are you doing?

"Hugging you, isn't that what Brits do to say 'hi'?" Alfred smiled at him and made a move to clap him on the back again, and probably would have succeeded if the smaller blonde hadn't jumped out of the way.

"Do you have any information?" he asked, trying to avoid any more emotional 'greetings.'

"There was a letter from some German guy high up, about this French dude we're looking for."

"Francis."

"That's it, only they called him 'La Grenouille.'" Arthur smirked at that, who knew the Germans had a sense of humour?

"Well what did it say?"

Alfred didn't look particularly happy at that question, scratching the back of his neck.

"The good news is he hasn't told them anything." There was a pause.

"And?"

"...So they're going to kill him."

There was a brief moment of silence in which a thousand thoughts went through Arthur's mind, the first being - _what the hell_?

"What do you mean they're going to kill him?! Well... when, why, how?" He was flapping his arms in distress now, watching the American go slightly pale.

"Dude, calm down!" Alfred grabbed his arms, "Don't worry about it, they won't kill him until tomorrow morning.

"Is that meant to be reassuring? We don't even know how to get into the prison yet!"

"Well then we better think fast." Alfred pulled a map from his pocket and held it up against the wall. The prison was circled faintly.

"You see the streets round here?" he said, pointing to a pattern of lines around the building.

"Yes."

"There's one missing."

"From the area or the map?"

"The map."

He drew in another line running up the west side of the building.

"There's another street here, I saw it on my rounds. Well I say street, more of an alleyway, didn't look like it had been used in a while, I mean, I had to climb over a few dumpsters to get to it."

Arthur looked at him incredulously.

"Wasn't that somewhat noticeable?"

"Narh, I was careful. I don't mount things unless I'm protected." He winked at Arthur, who opened his mouth in outrage. Between Alfred and Feliciano, the sane people in this town were doomed.

"So my thinking is, we climb over these thingies and throw a big rope up to the window, Francis catches it and ties it around a bar and we scuttle up and... work it out from there. So whatcha think?"

Arthur blinked.

"Are you having a laugh?" Alfred looked confused.

"No." They both looked at each other for a while. Arthur flapped his arms again.

"That won't work you absolute moron! It – I mean - oh God, I don't have time for this!" He buried his face in his hands and slid down the wall. To hell what it looked like to outsiders.

"Hey," the voice was surprisingly gentle, "it's gonna be okay, trust me."

Alfred looked at him so earnestly that, like the first time the American promised something like this, he wanted to believe him.

"I hope you're right."


	5. Angry Prussians

Arthur had only been in his bed for five minutes when Gilbert burst through the door. The wood slammed into the wall, a small chunk of plaster landed on the already filthy carpet. The Prussian's hair was flying in all directions and his eyes seemed redder than usual. He looked manic.

"Idiot!" The man marched up to Arthur and slapped him around the face, hard. "Do you know how much trouble I could have been in because of you? You could have blown the whole operation! What were you thinking?" Each exclamation was met with another blow to the face, Arthur tried to curl away from the flying fists but they kept raining down.

"Who the hell looks in the wrong direction crossing a road? Is this what we spent all this training on? Well? Is it?" The Englishman didn't even attempt to speak, his mouth was filling up with too much blood to form words. Gilbert gripped his collar and yanked up his bloodied face so that he was at eye-level with him.

"Don't you ever do anything so stupid again, Idiot!"

By the time Gilbert felt satisfied with Arthur's punishment, the blonde was curled into a ball on the grubby carpet, hands clenched into fists either side of his face. Arthur watched the boots retreating through hazy eyes and made sure the sound of them banging down the steps and out of the building had long since faded. With difficulty, he managed to raise himself onto his haunches and wretch a bit before steadying himself. A glance in the mirror that had fallen from the wall during the beating confirmed his worst fears. This would take a lot of explaining.

* * *

Ludwig looked up from the bar as Arthur walked in, and the last customers walked out. The smaller man's faced was badly cut and bruised, with one black eye and a split lip. He was limping.

"Arthur," the German man dropped what he was doing and rushed over to his employee, gripping his arms to steady him before he fell sideways into the doorframe, "What happened?!"

"It doesn't matter," Arthur choked, and then began to roll out his prepared speech, "There were some boys down at the bridge, they didn't like the look of me."

"Is that the only reason? They just didn't like the look of you?"

"I suppose so."

"But..." Ludwig's eyes raked his body, unconvinced, "They must have not liked you an awful lot. Are you sure you didn't do anything?"

Arthur's mind was too blurred to bother to think of any legitimate excuse for his appearance. Really, training hadn't much prepared him for angry Prussians.

"Maybe they found out I was gay."

Ludwig's hands tightened on his arms. As if in response, Arthur's throat tightened too.

"I see." The grip disappeared and Ludwig's arms fell to his side, "Well... I suppose that would explain it." His blue eyes looked blankly back into Arthur's green.

"You... don't mind?" The Englishman asked, fiddling with his sleeves. Honestly, he wasn't sure if _he_ didn't mind the fact that he was gay. Ludwig let out a short, bitter laugh.

"I am hardly one to complain, am I?"

"You mean-"

"It would be hypocritical, yes." They shared a meaningful look.

"I KNEW IT!" A voice boomed through the room. Ludwig denied it later, but Arthur swore the German squeaked. "I was right! Well don't worry Ludwig, you don't have to be alone, you can be with me!" Arthur heard him gulp. "Now that I know you're gay, I'll never give up!"

Feliciano gave one last wave before disappearing, letting the door swing close with a resounding clang. For a moment there was silence.

"We really need to lock that door."


	6. Stung

Alfred had positioned himself at the bottom of a slope under the bridge, so shrouded by rubble it would have been impossible for any passers-by to see what he was doing. It was fortunate, considering he was surrounded by a sea of maps and spilt ink, desperately trying to bring all of the notes together. That was how Arthur found him.

"What are you doing?

The younger man looked up. Seeing the Englishman with his thick eyebrows drawn together into a frown, he grinned.

"I think we're gonna be able to get in, Artie!"

"Really?" Arthur was too shocked to scold him for the improper use of his name. "But Alfred, it's going to be surrounded by guards."

"It doesn't matter; Gilbert's found a way."

Arthur winced at the name. It had been almost a fortnight since his 'encounter' with the albino and he hadn't forgotten it in a hurry. Ludwig was still suspicious, although Feliciano was doing a fine job of distracting him lately. That just left Alfred who, after the initial ranting about how he was going to "bust that guy's head in", had calmed to the point of just looking at Arthur with an emotion prickling in his eyes that the Englishman suspected was pity. He didn't want the American's pity.

"How? Even if we find some excuse to sneak past the guards we'll never get out with Francis alive."

Arthur willed himself to believe Francis was still alive.

"It's okay!" Alfred grinned inanely for a moment, "the jail will be practically unguarded."

Arthur frowned.

"But Alfred, that's impossible, they guard it 24/7."

"Not any more, they need to send more soldiers out to the front and a small prison in Bonn is pretty low down on their priority list." Things were starting to look a bit brighter, but Arthur couldn't help but feel there was a catch.

"You're sure that's exactly what Gilbert told you?"

"Yep!" Alfred looked too happy for Arthur to be able to question it much further. Really, they'd been here for months now, the German language was playing havoc with his dreams and he longed for the taste of proper chips again. The sight of rolling green hills and cobbled streets with old Victorian lampposts that really shouldn't still be working... Pub signs hanging on their hinges with chipped paint and the smell of locomotives.

"Hey dude, you alright?" Arthur's eyes snapped back into focus. How had he not noticed the American getting so close? They were practically brushing eyelashes. Wow, Arthur thought, his eyes are so... blue. They glittered as if they were both sharing some secret joke Arthur had missed out on.

"Just tired, huh?" The other's lips quirked, a different sort of smile to his usual cocky grin that Arthur had become so used to the past few weeks. It was a gentle smile, accompanied by a little tilt of the head. If Arthur just tilted his head the other way slightly... leant forward slightly... closed his eyes slightly...

"Hey!" A slap to the back of his head broke the moment. "Don't blank out on me here Artie! We got work to do!" Arthur grunted in agreement, breaking eye contact and crouching down to start gathering together the maps. His head stung. He told himself it was the only part of him that was hurting.

* * *

After wiping their trousers clean of any dirt they'd picked up from under the bridge, and safely bundling up the maps inside Alfred's postbag, the two men left their meeting place for the last time. Arthur planned to leave a few minutes after Alfred, not wanting to be seen together by some wayward child playing on the old tracks or an old biddy come to be nostalgic about the old days. They agreed to meet a few hundred yards from the prison that night, near the post office, where the lamplights didn't quite meet. Arthur watched the American saunter away from him, hands stuffed deep into his pockets and bag bumping against his thigh as he moved. He would just wait until he was out of sight-

"Hey! Stop!" A voice boomed, unnaturally loud over the silence of the bomb site. "You, stop!"

It was English, the man was speaking English, but with a German accent. It was all wrong.

He realised Alfred had begun to run, sprinting in the wrong direction. That was wrong too. Why didn't Alfred calmly turn around and act innocent, like they'd been trained to do. The bag was slapping against his thigh still. Arthur's insides iced over, if whoever was shouting out was suspicious of Alfred, they would look in the bag and then-

"STOP!" A gunshot fired.

The Englishman stopped thinking; all he could see was Alfred in trouble. He clambered out from his hiding place and began to stumble and fall across the broken ground, with no particular plan of action, just wanting to get closer to Alfred before those gunshots got more accurate in the poor light. Out in the open he felt as if he had willingly walked in front of a firing squad. The air around him itself was watching him, every trip and half-crawl, every choked cry.

Arthur felt a searing pain flash across his collar bone.

After that, all was black.


End file.
